


In most worlds you turned and never looked back, but in mine you still smile.

by Garecc



Series: Tim Lives Au [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A few scenes from my Tim lives not ft. the actual charachter development just soft tim, Angst, Basira is there but NOT a main character so im not tagging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'll write a better summary when my braincells return from the war, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, Statement Hunger, Tim Lives, Wrote a better summary bc my braincells came back from the war, blood mention, but not here bc i say so, i just wanted to write TIm taking care of Jonand then i did, i wanted soft tim, no beta we die like tim, or whatever, thats what this is, tim IS rather ooc but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garecc/pseuds/Garecc
Summary: A few slightly disjointed scenes from my Tim lives au.I'll put more context in the notes. This is what would be the comfort part of a hurt/comfort but I didn't write the hurt.Jon is sick/starved/in withdrawal from lack of statements. He's exhausted, tired. Hungry. Starving. He's generally just not having a good time.But in this universe, Tim is there.Tim takes care of Jon, getting him medicine for the nausea and painkillers for the migraines. He's there to make sure he's still eating normal, human food. There to make sure he's okay.Plus they go to the park, and it's very sweet.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Pre-JonMarTim, Pre-Jonmartin - Relationship, Pre-Jontim
Series: Tim Lives Au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686160
Comments: 30
Kudos: 296





	In most worlds you turned and never looked back, but in mine you still smile.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youurelovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youurelovely/gifts).



> So basically the context is Jon gets really sick form lack of statements/the eye feeding on him. Tim is alive bc during the unknowing Jon threw himself over Tim and that protected him from some of the blast. OR whatever. Thats.. Thats all you really need to know I think?
> 
> 2nd version bc the first one was the wrong date and that bothered me
> 
> I cannot belive I had not one but TWO typos in the notes

Tim stared at the door to Jon's office. 

There is no light under the door, nor the low, drawn out words of a statement.

Just a silence that sat heavy in the air.

Tim knocks. "Hey? Jon, I'm coming in." 

A shopping bag hung off Tim's wrist, the contents clanking as Tim fumbled with the key.

Medicine for the 'withdrawal' symptoms. Sweets because well, candy 

The door didn't swing open with an impossible echoing creak, or with a bang.

It just opened.

Exactly as a door should.

Just as he's done every day, he doesn't turn on the lights, merely using the light the door let in.

He sort of expected Jon to be at his desk, head in his arms or reading one of the books Tim left.

He isn't particularly _surprised_ when he sees Jon curled up on the cot, but is worried nonetheless.

  
  


Jon has a blanket haphazardly drawn over him, like he'd given up halfway of dragging it onto him, and just let the majority hang down. He hardly looks up, hardly reacts as Tim steps in. His eyes open a fraction, but close just as quickly as he confirms Tim's identity.

He's tired, exhausted even. And well? That's something Tim can respect.

"Can I turn on the lights?" Tim asks, realizing his voice was maybe a tad too loud with how Jon tensed on the cot.

(They should probably get a proper bed down here eventually. It's not like it would be unwarranted.)

It took Jon a moment to respond, and Tim expected at _least_ a sentence, or some condemning speech on how obvious the answer is.

When Jon finally speaks. His voice is slight, hardly audible. 

"..no." 

One word.

Something in Tim's chest aches.

Jon really is a shadow of who he was before all of this.

"Bad migraine or a smaller one?"

"Smaller." Jon's voice is still almost inaudible, but more permanent, now.

Less of a mumbled whisper.

(They haven't been able to solve the _bad_ migraines, yet.

Haven't been able to solve the headaches so bad Jon can hardly stand, hardly walk in a straight line. 

When he tears up from thinking too hard.

Haven't been able to make even a _dent_ in the ones where Jon holds his head and doesn't move. Can't move. Can't even _think_. 

Just gasps and shudders and almost but not quite sobs if moved. Where any light, any sound is enough to make him dig his nails into his skull so hard he draws blood.

They need to, because if Tim has to hold Jon while he feels like molten lava is inside his brain again Tim might just shoot Elias himself.)

(But the nausea, fever, and dizziness?

They can deal with that.

There's medicine for that.

And Jon's been doing better.

At least somewhat.

He still shivers like he's hypothermic, and he's still sicker than Tim's ever seen him. Sicker than all the fevers Tim saw him him through while they were back in research combined. 

But he's doing better.

He managed to keep down a meal, at least.

Managed to chew and swallow a full sandwich and a salad.

Managed to keep it down with the help of nausea medicine.

(It had taken 40 minutes, but Jon had finished the food.)

Which was so, so much more than what he had been able to eat before.

The one or two bites of apple sauce, or half a glass of milk.

A sip of juice or a single bite of an apple.

In an incredibly fucked up way, Tim felt proud of him.)

"Alright." Tim keeps his voice quiet, as he steps in.

There was a time where he would have turned the lights on and made his voice loud, if only to make things worse. If only to lash out. 

If only to drag everyone down with him.

He doesn't want to do that anymore.

Jon's hair is tangled, knotted. 

He hasn't brushed it in days.

Hasn't had the energy to.

  
  


Tim sits on the cot next to Jon, and it creaks beneath them.

But it's held more weight than this, and it doesn't collapse.

Jon opens his eyes, and stares up at Tim. "...yes?" He asks, with no patience left and Tim _almost_ smiles.

Because that's Jon.

"I brought some sweets, thought that might be easier to keep down than food. Any calories you can get you need."

Jon gets a _look_ in his eyes at that, like he doesn't quite know how to respond. Almost teary.

"Oh." Jon's voice is shuddery, weak. "Thanks." He sounds.. Well. Pathetic. He doesn't even have the energy to be snippy about it.

Somewhere, that hurts. _A lot_.

"Stronger nausea meds, too. Hopefully, you can manage more than a sandwich today. Better painkillers, might make a dent in those migraines. I'll open the bottles for you and leave them on your desk, okay?"

Jon made a sound that Tim assumed roughly translated to okay.

Jon was silent, and for a few solid moments, Tim hovered.

"...do you- is that all? "Jon asked after the silence stretched beyond comfortable. 

"Are you still running a fever?"

"Possibly. Probably." 

"Can I check?"

"..mmhm. Yeah."

Tim stroked Jon's hair out of his face, gentle. 

Tim pretended his heart didn't hurt with how Jon leaned into his hand.

He was feverish, but it wasn't nearly as high as it has been. 

Not nearly as high as when Jon had thrown up blood.

Not as high as when Jon's eyes glazed over as he **_starved._ **

  
  


He was doing better. No longer starving from supernatural hunger.

That was a good thing.

It was a _good thing._

"Do you want me to stay in here with you awhile?"

"Mmhm. That- yeah." Jon's eyes were shut tightly. "Stay."

(They had lied to him, they told him Jon was doing fine. That he was beating it.

Not that he hadn't been able to stand properly since Basira started limiting statements.

They neglected to mention he'd been throwing up blood. 

That he'd been having seizures. 

That he'd dropped 20 pounds.

They hadn't told him Jon was actively _dying._ )

"Did you throw up overnight?" Tim asked quietly, as he began to set up at Jon's desk.

Jon shook his head, mumbling a quiet no.

"Good. Good."

He just felt.. Tired, now, as he sat down.

  
  


(Tim had heard a loud thump through Jon's office door, like he had fallen.

He hadn't answered when Tim had asked through the door if he was okay.

Tim had a _terrible_ , _terrible_ feeling, about that. 

So he'd gotten the key off Basira.

Jon had been seizing, when he stepped in.

When he finally stopped he'd thrown up blood.

His eyes wouldn't focus, were so dilated there were only pupils, hardly any white and all he could say was he was **_starving_**. 

Tim had given his statement.

Regarding what he has seen during the unknowing.

And Jon had taken it like a starving man took food. 

His eyes wide like an endless abyss. Drinking in every detail he pulled from Tim. Every drop of fear.

Then he had apologized, sobbing, and passed out.

Then Tim _properly_ panicked. 

Because Jon looked like a famine victim.

And he had _thrown up blood_.)

"No seizures?" 

"Not since you gave your statement."

"Alright. Good. Just checking."

"Tim I-" Jon cut himself off, shutting his eyes even tighter. "Nevermind. It's ah, it's nothing." 

The way Jon said nothing revealed it probably wasn't nothing.

"What were you going to say?'

"Nevermind. It's.. Pointless. It's pointless really."

"Jon.."

"I was.. Going to ask if you could lay with me? Its- it's _dumb._ "

"Well, do you want me too?"

"..yeah."

Tim, with somewhat minimal hesitation, laid down next to Jon.

The cot was technically too small for 2 people, but Jon was so slight at this point Tim doubted it mattered.

Jon was stiff, at first. Almost frozen. But he slowly curled into Tim's arms, relaxing more. 

"Jon?"

"Mm?"

"Why didn't you.. Tell me they were.. I don't know, _starving_ you like that..?"

"I thought I could beat it," Jon said quietly. 

"You were _throwing up blood._ "

"That was- that was only later."

" _Still._ I could have made her bring you more, or _something_. I could have done _something._ "

"It's fine, now."

"No.. It's really not, Jon. You- you're _sick_ Jon."

Jon shifted closer to Tim. "I'm cold."

It was a poor attempt to change the topic, but Tim let him drop it.

"I'll buy a space heater, next time I'm out," Tim said, as he pulled Jon closer. Jon leaned into his arms, not quite melting into him, but something close.

(Tim aggressively ignored how much he just wanted to protect Jon.)

"God knows we need one down here."

"Thank you."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for- for getting me medicine and- this."

"It's nothing, Jon. It's nothing."

* * *

Jon didn't fall asleep, his headache was too bad for that. Stabbing pains that made him wince into Tim's shoulder. Dull and sharp at the same time, like someone was taking an ice-cream scoop to his brain.

He was silently glad Tim didn't ask if he had slept, because truthfully, Jon didn't know. He had long since turned the clock to face the wall. 

Watching time pass was only anxiety-inducing, and if he had slept, he'd woken up so many times it hardly mattered.

(He supposed that was better than the _dreams_. At least he wasn't hurting anyone.)

But he did relax, as Tim held him.

He needed this.

(He missed Martin so, so much. It was a physical ache when he thought of him.)

(It was a physical ache when he thought of _Sasha,_ too.)

Eventually, Basira came in with food, and scoffed at them.

Because well, Jon was curled into Tim's arms, and it was, frankly, horrifically adorable. Cute.

Tim stuck out his tongue, and helped Jon sit up.

(Jon is _blushing_. Jon is blushing and he _knows_ he is.)

He nodded to Basira, a watery smile on his lips. "Thank you." His voice is too quiet, hoarse even. 

Basira's smile is tight. Her eyes hold that ever cold gaze. 

It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, isn't a twisting red hot knife to the heart, but that doesn't make it ache any less.

(He wonders- no. He Knows she wouldn't look at him like that if he had woken up human.)

"How are you doing, Jon?"

"Oh. I'm- I'm okay." 

She looked to Tim to confirm this, and Jon's smile soured. 

He could say for his _own damn self if he was okay._

Tim nodded in confirmation. 

"Good." She said, and handed over a statement.

Jon took it unthinkingly.

 _Hungrily_. A voice in his head added as an afterthought. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore how much it hurt that it was true. How much he _hated_ that it was true.

Basira frowned a bit, but said nothing. "Right, then. Melanie and I will be eating out there. I hope you feel better." She left hastily. Both because she wants to avoid Jon and Tim's _terribly_ obvious pining and because she wanted to avoid Jon in general.

(It wasn't that she felt guilty, really. It's just that whenever she looked at him her heart twisted. She didn't hate how dismissive she was of the withdrawal at first. She didn't feel guilty. Of course, she didn't. She didn't think of seeing the blood on the floor in clumps as Tim gave a statement, as Jon slumped into Tim's arms, _apologizing_. Still _sorry_. Still, damn _sorry_ even after _this._ After having thrown up blood. After having had seizures. She didn't feel guilty. Of _course_ not. /s)

(After all, it's his own fucking fault he didn't mention them. And that he hid the blood soaked paper-towels. That he didn't tell them he couldn't stand anymore, that moving from the cot to the desk took an hour. He hadn't _said anything._ And even if she did ignore the blood she saw and the fact he looked more dazed and out of it with every day. Even if she ignored how he trembled with exhaustion. She willfully ignoring it doesn't count. He should have mentioned it.)

As soon as she was gone, Jon deflated a bit. Tim, unthinkingly, squeezed his hand. 

"Do you have a hairbrush?" Tim said after a moment.

"..yeah?" Of _course,_ he has a hairbrush. 

"I could do your hair while you read it? Ah. If you want?"

"That.. That sounds rather nice, really. It's- it's rather a mess.." The thought of him brushing his hair made Jon's heart melt. 

"I'm sure I've dealt with worse."

Jon laughed quietly, as he looked down at the statement. "Yeah, alright. Thank you."

Tim grabbed the brush, and started on Jon's hair.

"Statement of David Atayah... Regarding the demise and.. Subsequent resurrection of his life partner, James "Meaty" Grice, a journalist..."

  
  


Jon read easily, smoothly. 

And Tim listened idly as he brushed Jon's hair.

Jon wasn't joking, when he said it was a mess.

But Tim was careful, gentle. Jon relaxed back against him. As relaxed as he could be, during a statement.

As he finished up the statement, Tim had finished Jon's hair in a braid.

Jon took the pills, and they moved to the desk. Tim, dragging the spare chair over, and they started on the takeout.

Jon picked over it, taking the odd bite every minute or so.

Tim didn't comment as he ate, but kept a close eye on Jon. 

Eventually, Jon leaned away from the desk, pushing the food up. Having eaten 6 whole bites of rice, and a bit of chicken.

Not nearly enough, but about as much as Tim expected.

"..not hungry?" Tim asked slowly. Jon nodded, looking away. 

"I just- I'll eat more later. I promise. When- when the headache lets up."

"I'm holding you to that." Tim agreed. "You're not getting out of it now. You _promised_."

Jon smiled a bit, weakly but it was there. "Alright, Tim. _Alright._ "

* * *

Jon's been in the archives for well over a month.

Tim keeps him company more often than he doesn't, these days. 

Jon has a constant headache. A buzzing pain behind his eyes.

He gets dizzy if he moves too fast.

He gets dizzy far too much.

He.. Well. He honestly doesn't know what he would do without Tim. He doesn't know what he would do if Tim suddenly stopped bringing him food, painkillers, water.

He lets Tim take care of him. After all, what's he supposed to do? Not take comfort in the one good thing he still has going for him?

Tim eventually gets the idea of them going to the park for a few hours.

It was a bad idea, they both _knew_ it was probably a terrible idea.

(Basira's gaze was cold, as she regarded them. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" 

"No," Tim responded joyfully. "But we're doing anyway!")

Jon's heart was in his throat, as for the first time in over a month, Jon breathed fresh air.

Air that didn't smell of old paper. Or of fear so tangible you can feel it rattle in your chest.

Tim was talking, but Jon wasn't really listening as he focused on the fresh air, the ability to breathe clearly.

Tim paused, seeming to notice Jon's stillness.

"Jon?"

"I'm okay- just, ah. Just the fresh air. Bit of a shock is all."

"Ah, do you want to sit down a bit? Bask in sunlight a bit?"

Jon smiled to himself. "No, no. I'm sure we can do that in the park." 

Tim snorted. "Come along then."

Tim took Jon's hand. Jon let him.

* * *

They were having a picnic in the park. A perfectly mundane, normal activity.

Hopefully nothing would come for them.

Hopefully nothing would kill them.

Jon stares at the sky as he slowly picks over the food Tim packed.

He isn't nauseous yet, and hasn't been so much he couldn't eat in a few days.

A statement before he eats plus medicine. He's kept food down.

That's a good thing. Tim assures him, he's eating. 

He's gaining weight back.

He hasn't passed out or lost time in days.

He's _recovering_.

(What Jon doesn't say, is that it feels an awful lot like giving in.)

He leans into Tim's side, as they eat.

The food is good, it's obvious Tim put effort into it. Something about the mix of Tim still caring, makes his heart hurt.

He's so, so thankful Tim cares.

(He doesn't know what he'd do if Tim still hated him.)

He takes a bite of the salad Tim packed, and his gaze falls to the sky.

He feels like crying. 

Tim smiles at him, and something shatters inside him.

He's so exhausted. His entire body aches from unnatural hunger and he's _outside_. 

He wants to go _home_.

But he hasn't had a flat since before the coma, his things are still in storage. 

There are tears in his eyes.

Something all too fragile shutters and breaks inside him, the dam giving way.

Because then he's crying, because he can _see the sky._

It's been so, so long since he's been outside.

He's staring at the sky, the leaves, the nature, and he's crying because he _hasn't been outside in a month._

He doesn't want to go back to the archives.

_He doesn't want to do this anymore_. 

Tim's pulling him into a hug, and Jon doesn't mean to, but he _clings_.

He needs Tim.

He _needs_ Tim.

"Jon?"

"Just- the _sky._ I haven't been outside in a _month_."

Tim hugged him tighter. "I know."

* * *

They don't go back to the archives after, like Tim said they would.

They head to Tim's house.

Jon sits on the couch, the window open, natural light streaming in.

He looks _fragile_ , as he sits there.

He's holding the cup of tea so tight his knuckles are white. Knees draw to his chest.

Tim sits next to him, and turns on the TV.

"Tim?" Jon started, voice shaking a bit. 

Tim turned. "Yeah?"

"I don't want to go back." Jon was quiet, like he was admitting a great sin.

"I know." Tim placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I know."

"I just- _I don't want to do this anymore_." Tears are collecting in his eyes and he can't look away from the window. 

"We're going to get out of this somehow," Tim said, and there was _finality_ in his voice. "Kill Elias. I don't know. We'll sever our contracts. We just need to figure out how."

"I don't know if I could even _survive_ without the eye anymore."

"Jon?"

"Yeah?"

"Your heart is beating. You're breathing air. You can suffocate. You can drown. _Whatever_. You are human enough to die like one, so you're human enough to live."

"I suppose."

"And plus, if you die you won't get to date Martin."

Jon choked on his tea, and started coughing. "Tim!" Jon sputtered, but he was smiling. 

Tim laughed, a genuine, real laugh. He patted Jon's shoulder. "We're going to get through this. I didn't almost _die_ for nothing. So you can't die either Jon. Okay?"

"Okay."

"When this is over, you. Me. Martin. We'll leave. We'll leave and we'll _live_. Get some therapists and _live_. Start a badass we-stopped-the-apocolypse polycule and die in our 80s. No our 100s. We'll be fucking happy and safe and it'll be great."

"...God do I hope so, Tim. God do I hope so."

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa no braincells no thoughts head empty


End file.
